Poor old Margate has hadÂ a rough ride of it in recent years. When I first drove past the Kent townâs golden sands less than a decade ago, the non-seaside aspect of it â grungy, underprivileged, blighted by garish âamusementsâ â gave me a bad dose of The Fear.

The principal harbinger of this change has been Turner Contemporary, the new high-profile and wildly disputed art gallery. Newcomers have been attracted by the promise that downtrodden Margate was about to blossom into Bilbao, or at least Gateshead, transformed by eager art-lovers with lots of lovely disposable income.

The gallery may have divided the opinion of both culture pundits â art critic Brian Sewell sneered: âIts presence is as aggressive and threatening as that of a hyena in a sheepfoldâ â and locals, who continually bleat that theyâd have been better off with a swimming pool or ice-rink for the kiddies. But the town, without any shadow of a doubt, now boasts a whole lot more going for it than it once did.

A key element of every successful cultural enterprise nowadays is its catering (remember that famous Saatchi ad, âAn ace caff with quite a nice museum attachedâ for the V&A?) and Turner Contemporary is no exception.

As befits somewhere plonked betwixt a teeming sea and the Garden of England, locality is more than just a buzzword: fish comes straight from the waters that almost lap the gallery, via neighbouring Broadstairs fishmongers Fruits de Mer, where Iâve frequently seen customers leave toting carrier bags still wiggling with life. Beers come from Shepherd Neame and wines from Chapel Down (who seem to be doing very well indeed these days â English wine in no-longer-laughing-stock shock). Â

There are some serious highlights: a lush terrine packed with silky chunks of Butcher of Brogdale game â rabbit, partridge, pheasant and pigeon â and bound in a chicken liver parfait thatâs as luxurious as foie gras. Itâs a tribute to the classic Pierre Koffmann recipe with added boozy prunes and pistachios to turn it into something even more jovial. My France-based chums say itâs the best terrine theyâve had in years and Iâm inclined to agree.

Thereâs splendidly autumnal soup: smokey Jerusalem artichoke with a tangle of seared chanterelles. Rosy, exceptionally tender duck breast, all fat rendered out, with buttery fondant potatoes and a red wine sauce with base-notes of clementine marmalade. Even the chap who has selflessly chosen vanilla-sounding goats cheese with roasted vegetables is happy with the almost-caramelised roots and pungent, chalky chêvre.

Mowl is doing an amazing job; thereâs only ever him and a sous-chef in the kitchen and he still carries off his regularly changing menus with flair. He catered for Her Majâs recent visit here â she apparently loved that terrine, as did Tracey Eminâs mum. Who can blame them? Itâs undoubtedly a thing of gorgeousness.

Sure, there are niggles: cold plates, sauces with a tendency to gloopiness, staff more well-meaning than robot-like in their efficiency. It comes a little unstuck with an over-elaborate semi-fredo (sic) of pecan praline, unlike our teeth which are firmly glued together by its honeycomb tuile.Â But for a town not over-burdened with excellent places to eat, it looks like at last thereâs seriousness of ambition and intent. A bit like Margate itself.A meal for two with wine, water and tip costs about £80. Rendezvous, Margate, Kent. http://www.turnercontemporary.org